


Hooked on a Feeling

by hardly_questionable



Category: Reservoir Dogs (1992)
Genre: Drabbles, Gen, M/M, Tumblr Prompt, other characters to be added - Freeform, tumblr challenges, word challenges
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-07
Updated: 2013-04-06
Packaged: 2017-12-07 17:36:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/751194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hardly_questionable/pseuds/hardly_questionable
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reservoir Dogs drabbles!  Short stories either prompted on tumblr or a kinkmeme fill.  Expect predominantly Mr. White and Mr. Orange either as a romantic pair or as the focus characters, although I will try to get to everyone else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr prompt: "Call Me": one character asking after another. Freddy Newandyke and Larry Dimmick; relatively gen.

—

The first time Freddy calls Larry, he calls him “White” and asks if he wants to go out for a drink. It’s casual; Holdaway _told_ Freddy to start making friends with everybody. People are more suspicious of you if you keep to yourself, he said. People start thinking you got something to hide.

Freddy has about a million and one things to hide, but he can manage to put them all to the side and just be Mr. Orange—supercool thief extraordinaire. He can. No problemo.

He doesn’t know why he picks White, but the older man seemed the most approachable and least aggravating of the group. And so he finds himself balancing his phone between his ear and his shoulder as he struggles to find a pair of jeans that aren’t frayed at the cuffs.

“White. Hey. It’s Orange…”

—

The second time, it’s just after Freddy’s met with Holdaway and McKlusky. The story about “two guns” Dimmick rattles around in his skull and he’s pretty sure if he opens his mouth it’s gonna come all pouring out. They’re at some restaurant or another with all the guys and Freddy can’t stop looking at White— _Larry. Lawrence Dimmick_. The guy who shot up an entire party of wives, girlfriends, cops. He tries to overlay the image of Lawrence Dimmick: Cop Killer with the man sitting next to him, his arm slung over the back of Freddy’s chair like it isn’t a thing. And it isn’t a thing. It’s just that the images won’t stick. And when White ( _gotta think of him as White, can’t give yourself away_ ) looks over and shoots Freddy a crooked grin, it takes some kind of supreme effort to grin back.

“White,” he blurts out when half the table have cleared out either to take a piss or flirt with a girl or whatever the fuck else. White turns to look at him, and Freddy realizes that he has no fucking idea what he wants to say. There’s a heart-stopping second and Freddy scrambles wildly before settling on: 

“Hand me a fucking napkin, will ya?”

White ( _Larry_ ) grins and rolls his eyes and calls Freddy a lazy motherfucker as he reaches for the little tin thing with the napkins. Whatever the fuck it’s called. Freddy smirks back and fires off a response he doesn’t really feel and bitterly thanks God or whatever that at least he’s a good actor.

—

He’s covered in blood and he can’t really breathe and he’s panicking, panicking panicking because he is abso-fucking-lutely going to die, he’s going to die before Cabot even sticks his fat fucking head through the door and he fucking hates _everyone_ it wasn’t worth it, it wasn’t worth it at all, this whole fucking bullshit wasn’t even worth it.

Voices, tense and angry and familiar, wash over him and he can feel himself scrambling into Larry’s shoulder _(he can think of him as ‘Larry’ now, thank god, White was such a stupid fucking name, this whole thing was fucking stupid)_. The older man’s now-familiar smell grounds him better than the pain and the blood. Makes Freddy feel like he’s not going to float away. 

When Larry moves, Freddy scrabbles for a hold on his lapel and doesn’t actually have enough motor skills to do anything but flail weakly. Panic lances through his chest, making it all but impossible to breathe. Freddy’s sure he says something because Larry’s back; his face swims into focus over Freddy and he says, quietly, “I’m just gonna be in the other room, I’ll be looking right at you.” 

Then Larry fades out of view. Darkness crowds Freddy’s vision and fuck being supercool and fuck being manly as hell. Left alone with his fear, all Freddy can do is whimper: 

“Larry. Don’t leave me…” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr prompt: "Zip Me": one character dressing another. Orange/White slash

You’re instructed by Joe to go and get suits. You’re not too troubled by this—you have a suit a few years old that still fits you fine. But when you turn to the kid next to you, an invitation to go grab some food on your tongue, you catch the tail end of a frown.

You ask Orange if he owns a suit. He says no. You ask if he’s ever picked out one before. He grins crookedly and tells you to fuck off, of course he has, but his matchstick shoulders hunch up in a way that says he hasn’t even seen a suit since prom. You don’t know why you care, but you are gonna help this kid get a proper fucking suit. 

You bully, tease, coax, and eventually manhandle him into a small store, with him loudly complaining the entire time.

“Jesus fucking Christ, kid,” you say, just about three hundred percent done with his whining. ”Shut the fuck up, will you. Here,” you shove an armful of clothes in his direction, “go put these on and please keep your fucking mouth shut.”

“All right, all right, Jesus,” Orange sulks at you, glaring up from behind the fringe of his bangs. His green eyes are reproachful as he slumps into the changing room and you wait on one of the little chairs, with nothing but the sound of rustling fabric and the occasional _what the fuck_ whispered behind the door.

Finally: “White, you goddamn fuck!”

You roll your eyes. ”Christ on a goddamn bike, Orange,” you snap. You’re a patient man—you have to be, when you work multiple jobs with people like Mr. Pink—but this is a little ridiculous. ”You want me to come in an fucking hold your hand?”

Orange bursts out of the dressing room and scowls at you. ”This is a _girl’s_ jacket!” he exclaims, all childish indignation. You run out of words for a moment.

It is a woman’s jacket, and fuck if you know how it got in there, but you can’t find it in yourself to complain. It’s a little too tight on Orange’s shoulders, a little too short in the arms, and gaps out funny where the tits are supposed to go, it should be funny. 

But the jacket also darts in to ride tightly along the line of his torso, and you’re suddenly struck with the urge to put both your hands on his hips, to run your fingers down the line of his ribs and _this is a terrible idea_ but now Orange’s gaze is a little less indignant and a little more curious. You lick your lips and clench your hands. This is—as Mr. Pink would opine— fucking unprofessional. You don’t think you care anymore.

You step forward, press one hand to the center of his chest, and gently push him backwards. He follows obediently. You close the door behind you.


End file.
